Calavar; or, The Knight of The Conquest, A Romance of Mexico

by Robert Montgomery Bird

Before they had yet reached the borders of the island, the night became still more dark than at their outset; for the lightning grew fainter at each flash, and finally sank beneath the horizon, to continue its lurid gambols among the depths of the South Sea. This was witnessed with secret satisfaction; for, with these treacherous scintillations, departed the dread that many felt, lest they should betray the march of the army.

It has been mentioned, that the people of Tenochtitlan had not only covered the surface of the island with their dwellings, but had extended them, on foundations of piles, into the lake, wherever the shallowness of the water permitted. This was especially the case in the neighbourhood of the great dikes; in which places, not only single houses, but entire blocks, deserving the name of suburbs, were constructed. Such a suburb jutted out, for some distance, along the causeway of Tacuba.

The van of the army had already passed beyond the furthest of these black and silent structures, and yet no just cause existed to suppose the retreat had been discovered; though many men of sharper ears or fainter hearts than their fellows, had averred that they could, at times, distinguish, on the rear, a dull sound, as of men moving behind them in heavy masses. The wiser, however, were satisfied, that no such sounds could prevail even over the subdued noise of their own footsteps; but some of these bent their ears anxiously towards the front, as if afraid of danger in that quarter. The reason of this was not concealed. All day, sounds of lamentation had been heard coming from the dike, upon which they were now marching, or from its neighbourhood. It was rumoured, that the cemetery of the Mexican kings lay on the hill of Chapoltepec, under the huge and melancholy cypresses, which overshadow that green promontory; and that there, this day, Montezuma had been laid among his ancestors. A whole people had gone forth to lament him; and how many of the mourners might be now returning by the causeway, was a question which disturbed the reflections of all.

But this apprehension was dispelled, when the front of the army had reached the first of the three ditches which intersected the dike of Tacuba. Its bridge was removed and gone, and the deep water lay tranquilly in the chasm. The foe, relying on this simple precaution, had left the dike to its solitude; and the expedient for continuing the imprisonment of the Spaniards, was the warrant of their security.

A little breeze, dashing occasionally drops of rain, began to puff along the lake, as the bridge-bearers deposited their burden over the abyss. This was not the labour of a moment; the heavy artillery, which still preceded the train of discomfited slayers, like a troop of jackals in the path of other destroyers, required that the ponderous frame should be adjusted with the greatest care. While the carriers, assisted by a body of Tlascalans, who slipped into the ditch and swam to the opposite side, were busy with their work, the long train of fugitives behind, halted, and remained silent with expectation. The rumbling of the wood over the flags of the causeway, the suppressed murmurs of the labourers, and, now and then, the dropping of some stone loosened by their feet, into the ditch,—added to the sighs of the breeze, whispering faintly over casque and spear,—were the only sounds that broke the dismal quiet of the scene; and there was something in these, as well as in the occurrence itself, which caused many to think of the characteristics of a funeral;—the mute and solemn expectation of the lookers-on,—the smothered expressions of the few,—and the occasional rattle of clods, dropping, by accident, upon the coffin.

The bridge was, at last, fixed, and the loud clang of hoofs was heard, as Cortes, himself, made trial of its strength. The breath of those behind, came more freely, when these sounds reached their ears; and they waited impatiently till the advance of those who preceded them, should give motion to their own ranks.

The post of Don Amador de Leste had been assigned, at his own demand, in the vanguard,—which was a force consisting of twenty horsemen, two hundred foot, and ten times that number of Tlascalan warriors, commanded by Sandoval, the valiant; and, up to this moment, he had ridden at that leader's side, without much thought of unhealed wounds and feebleness, willing, and fully prepared, to divide the danger and the honour of any difficulty, which might be presented. But being now convinced, by the sign we have mentioned,—that is to say, the removal of the original bridge,—that no enemies lay in wait on the causeway, he descended from the back of Fogoso, giving the rein to Lazaro, and commanding him to proceed onward with the party. In this, he was, perhaps, not so much governed by a desire to escape the tedium of riding in company with the ever taciturn Sandoval, as to be nearer to the forlorn boy, Jacinto, who had, until this moment, trudged along at his side. Some little curiosity to witness the passage of the rout of fugitives, had also its influence; for, taking the page by the hand, he led him to the edge of the bridge, where he could observe every thing without inconvenience, and without obstructing the course of others.

The dike of Tacuba was, like that of Iztapalapan, of stone, and so broad, that ten horsemen could easily ride on it abreast. Its base was broad, shelving, and rugged, and the summit was, perhaps, six feet above the surface of the water.

The thunder of the twenty horsemen, as they rode over the bridge, interrupted the consolation which the neophyte was about to give to Jacinto; who, hanging closely to his patron's arm, yet looked back towards the city, with many sobs for his exiled father. In the gloomy obscurity of the hour, the cavaliers of the van, as they passed, seemed rather like spectres than men;—in an instant of time, they were hidden from sight among the thick shadows in front. Not less phantom-like appeared the two hundred foot, stealing over the chasm, and vanishing like those who had preceded them. Then came the two thousand Tlascalans, their broken and drooping plumes rustling over their dusky backs, as they strode onwards, with steps quickened, but almost noiseless.

After these, came the cannon,—eighteen pieces of different sizes, dragged by rows of pagans, commanded by the gunners. The bridge groaned under their weight; and a murmur of joy crept over the compacted multitude behind, when they had counted them, one by one, rumbling over the sonorous wood, and knew that the last had crossed in safety.